


That Damned Greenberg

by FutureMrsWatson



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alive Vernon Boyd & Erica Reyes, Hella sketchy but completely legal age difference, M/M, Teacher-Student Relationship, actual blowjobs, dream blowjobs, dub con, extreme displays of seduction, shower masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 06:23:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2641412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FutureMrsWatson/pseuds/FutureMrsWatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem with Greenberg wasn't that he was a cocky little prick, although he was. It wasn't that he ran his tongue along his teeth crudely, holding eye contact with Coach, while he delivered one of his favorite pre-game speeches. It wasn't even that he, instead of writing the papers that Coach had required in econ, would write pages and pages of elicit descriptions--things he would do to Coach. Things he would have Coach do to him. Places. Sounds. He’d lay the paper on the desk with a wink and a smirk and zero shame; his words already burning low in Coach’s belly lying there among thirty others, far and away the most interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Damned Greenberg

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I could not understand why Coach hated Greenberg so much until I wrote this fic. Please beware, the timeline jumps around a bit. Also, please let me know if there is something I should tag that I have not. See notes at the end for an explanation of the dub-con as mentioned in the tags. Much love to [QuickLikeLight](http://quicklikelight.tumblr.com/)and [pictures-to-prove-it](http://pictures-to-prove-it.tumblr.com/) for all the support, and the Root Cellar for keeping those word wars coming.

The problem with Greenberg wasn't that he was a cocky little prick, although he was. It wasn't that he ran his tongue along his teeth crudely, holding eye contact with Coach, while he delivered one of his favorite pre-game speeches. It wasn't even that he, instead of writing the papers that Coach had required in econ, would write pages and pages of elicit descriptions--things he would do to Coach. Things he would have Coach do to him. Places. Sounds. He’d lay the paper on the desk with a wink and a smirk and zero shame; his words already burning low in Coach’s belly lying there among thirty others, far and away the most interesting. Far and away the most inappropriate. 

The problem with Greenberg was that he knew. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The knock on his office door had come after a long and infuriating day. The boys on the lacrosse team spent most of practice playing slap’n’tickle instead of actually practicing, and Coach knew the next game would be a bust. He scrubbed his hands over his face, squeezing his eyes shut tight for a beat, before calling, “Stiles I swear to god if that is you, I… I can’t be held responsible for the things I will do.”

The door eased open, Greenberg casually leaning against the frame. 

“What about me?” His grin was devious and awful and sent Coach’s gut roiling. “My birthday was last week, you know. You can’t be held responsible for the things you do to me, either.”

Coach wanted to punch himself in the face. 

“Son, you’re still my student. So, yes. I could.”

“Son?” Greenberg's voice went low as he pushed off from the door frame and lithely moved to the hard plastic chair that sat in front of Coach Finstock’s desk. He eased his body into it, leaning back, taking up every inch of space, every last molecule of oxygen with the gentle lift of his hips, settling even further as the chair gave a loud squeak. “We could do things with ‘son,’ you know.” 

\--

He had locked his office door that day, frantically pushing his gray Nike practice pants mid-thigh, one tight fist wrapped around his already weeping cock, the other gripping the desk until his fingers burned. He came quickly, forcefully, a loud huff that he immediately cringed at, the sound echoing in his ears as he wiped his fingers with a flimsy tissue.

“Damn that Greenberg…” He had muttered. When he strode purposefully from his office, the kid was there again, back leaned against the wall, his smirk entirely too knowing. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I think you failed me on purpose.” 

Coach refused to turn around, erasing the lecture from the board while the students filtered out of the classroom. He knew that voice. He’d know that voice anywhere. 

“Well, Greenberg, if you’d actually turn something in that I could use, I might not have had to give you an F.” His tone was, harsh, scathing. Too harsh really, to use on a student. He took a shaky breath.

“Are you sure you didn't use my papers? Or maybe you just wanted to see my handsome face again…” He trailed off, tricking Coach into thinking he’d somehow hurt the boy’s feelings. He turned, and immediately saw he’d been played for a fool… again. 

Greenberg leaned on the desk, both fists knuckling the laminate. His glasses, thick black frames, sat low on his nose--low enough that Coach could see both the gray of his eyes, and the sweep of dark eyelashes that painted a ring around them. The kid cocked an eyebrow devilishly and moved even closer, letting his mouth lazily drop open, words falling off his tongue, “I am pretty sure you used my papers, Coach. I’m pretty sure you liked them.”

Harassed, Coach whirled on his heel, scrubbing the board vigorously, leaning into it to try to erase any traces of the damned red ink that never seemed to fully disappear. With his energy so focused on restoring the pristine white of the board, he never heard Greenberg leave. 

He leaned his forehead heavily against the cool of the whiteboard, nostrils flaring, willing his body to calm, filled to the brim with a heady mix of rage and lust. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first time Coach Finstock laid eyes on Greenberg, he knew the kid was trouble. He’d walked into class that day, an eleventh grader at the time. He’d stopped dead in his tracks, eyes taking Coach in all at once and then slowly, bit by bit. That had pissed Coach right off, some kid acting as if he could just take eyefuls of the teacher with no regard to the man or the law. As if that weren't infuriating enough, the boy had ducked his head, a dark curl falling across his eye, then peeked back up jamming his tongue in his cheek lewdly. Coach had felt his body respond in kind, and immediately turned to face the broad windows that looked over the staff parking. 

“I’m just a man, for God’s sake…” he had grumbled to himself, roughly combing a hand through his hair. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The leaves were green and yellow rimmed with gold and the bite in the air had the boys wearing long sleeve shirts under their jerseys during practice. Their energy was frenetic--excited, even. With the final game drawing near, Coach was proud of the strong, cohesive unit the team had become. The older boys--Stiles, Scott, Isaac--had come to terms with whatever differences last year had held, and they led the team with gentle authority. Coach couldn’t have been more proud if they had been his own sons. 

And then there was Greenberg. Damn him. 

Greenberg played magnificently. Of course he did. He was a year older than the other boys, and it showed. His shoulders were broad. His arms, sinewy and strong. He was fast. Agile. On the days he’d been benched mid-game, he’d pull his helmet off, shake his sweaty hair off his forehead, and point up into the bleachers, catching the eye of some lucky teenaged girl and winking. He was, needless to say, well-liked within the 14-18 age range. He made Coach’s blood burn with frustration. 

Later, Coach sat in his office grading assignments. The last practice of the season had just ended and he listened to the team bustle about the locker room, snapping towels and blowing off steam. One by one, the voices faded away, leaving only the sound of the shower, the last few taking their time getting cleaned up before heading home. 

The sound of the shower, and…? There was definitely some groaning.

Coach’s eyes rolled his eyes right out of his head, then he pushed his chair back, loud legs screeching against the tile floor. It’s not like the boys shower at Beacon Hills High School didn’t see some action from time to time. It did. It was just that usually the participants tried to be discreet about it. This--this was not discreet. This was pornographic.

“I’m coming around this corner and I swear to God if I see dicks touching mouths or asses, I’m going to call your grandmothers and describe to them in detail the things I have witnessed. Trust me, I will leave nothing out.” The sounds coming from the shower showed no signs of stopping. 

“Jesus Chri--” Coach rounded the corner, then stopped dead in his tracks. Fucking Greenberg.

There in a sea of steam, was Greenberg, alone. Body glistening, flushed. Mouth parted, laying loud moans over long whines, the sound bouncing and echoing in the shower stall. His eyes demanded Coach’s attention, staring him down without blinking. He continued to moan while he pumped his cock, breath hitching loudly as his slow, luxurious pull gave way to a fast and frenzied stripping, his eyes never once leaving Coach’s. 

Coach was glued to the floor. He was in a spell. That damned kid was standing there, hand pumping furiously, words spilling out of him and splashing over Coach’s off-line brain in much the same way a hurricane batters a jetty. 

“I thought you might like this, Coach. See all of this, just for you? It’s all for you…” He paused; humming his satisfaction. “Just for you…” Greenberg's voice was rough, wrecked. His words came in punched breaths, but he never ceased moving his lips, never once looked away. “I’m going to come for you, Coach. I’m going to come for you, and I want you to remember how I look.” His voice shook as his body tensed, and with a final groan, he let loose his orgasm, streams of come splashing on the tile floor. He slowed his fist, still holding Coach’s gaze, and then finally let go of his cock, pulling his hand up to his mouth to take one long lap of the come that dripped from his fingers. 

“… Wish it were yours…” 

Coach coughed. He cleared his throat. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He turned around and limped numbly to his office, slamming the door so hard his “Coach of the Year” plaque clattered to the floor.

When he came, all he could see was that damn kid’s face.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Coach had refused to let Greenberg on the team. 

He spent a better portion of an entire planning period arguing with Mr. Harris about whether or not the boy deserved to play. 

“You do want to win, right?” The chemistry teacher had stared at him with beady eyes, suspicious. 

“Yes, of course I want to win, Adrian! That’s why I can’t have that kid on my team! Have you seen him with a stick?! Ludicrous!” Coach paced the over-warm room, his voice just a notch below frantic. 

Adrian had sat back in his chair, his face glimmering thoughtful, then wicked. “What’s up with you, Bobby? You’re acting weird. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think…” His voice trailed off hesitantly.

“You’d think what, Adrian?” Coach’s voice was venomous.

“You know you’re not going to get in Natalie Martin’s pants by playing the sensitive loser part, right?” Mr. Harris’ eyes danced with glee at the mention of the smoking hot mother of their brightest student, and the blanching of Coach’s face in response. 

“What the fuck!” Coach was out the door before he’d even finished his sentence, sending unsuspecting students skittering down the hall like billiard balls after a solid break. 

He’d put Greenberg on the team. There’s no way in hell he’d let Adrian Harris think he was trying to pull a fast one to get in good with Nat. No need for that, anyway, he’d thought wryly. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had managed to stay away from Greenberg the next few weeks. Sure, he’d had to interact as a leader, a teacher, but thankfully he’d been spared another shower re-enactment. His body, such a traitor, ached to see the kid again, but if there was one thing Coach was, it was an honorable man. To the point of insanity, he laughed to himself.

 

The next weekend, he found himself checking ID’s at the door of the Winter Formal, the excitement and tension palpable as couples and groups of teens came bustling through. He saw Scott and Allison come in, beaming rainbows, Allison tugging a reluctant Kira behind her. Isaac was next, cool as usual, his arm slung easily over Lydia’s shoulder. Later, Erica came through, dragging both Stiles and Boyd behind her, wearing what was probably not dress-code acceptable attire.

Greenberg came in alone. He’d cornered Coach two days before, asking whether he’d be chaperoning, and Coach was tempted to lie to the kid, but didn’t. He wore a bow tie, suspenders, his hair mussed just so. Despite not having a date on his arm, he looked good. Damn that kid. Coach had managed to trade out his normal t-shirt for a tuxedo shirt and khakis, but that was the max amount of effort he put forth. Judging by Greenberg’s face, that was good enough. Sigh. 

It was only a short while later that he was being shoved toward the dance floor. It wasn’t a pretty job, but someone had to be sure nobody was getting pregnant out there. He wove through the heavy throng of moving bodies, heads tossed back in laughter, groups of girls dancing happily while groups of guys circled awkwardly. Some couples, clearly lost in their own worlds, grinding together. He’d been sorely tempted to bring his whistle, and he cursed himself that he’d decided against it. 

He was near the center of the dance floor when he felt a hand on the small of his back. Ordinarily, he probably would not have noticed, but the hand was hot, so hot. Pressing firmly. Coach turned and… dammit. Greenberg stood in front of him, his gaze positively predatory. 

“Dance with me.” Greenberg mouthed the words more than said them, and Coach felt another bubble start to build in his gut. “Please.” 

There were so many bodies moving. Pressing them together. Greenberg was the sun, and Coach slowly began to orbit him. He knew it wasn’t the best decision. He knew he needed to walk away. Greenberg, sure, was “legal,” as he’d so helpfully pointed out over and over, but he was a student. He still had power over the kid. And yet, wasn’t it the kid who had power over him?

He traced a slow circle around the bow-tied, curly-haired boy, his brain urging him to move away, but his feet dictating the path. The music thumped his heartbeat, the air thick, heady. He was intoxicated by the boy. 

It was a miracle that he managed to escape. He rushed out the door, taking huge gulps of cool, winter air. He shook his head vigorously, sound escaping his mouth as he did. He heard a couple of snickers, and turned to see Stiles, that Hale kid, and Erica hastily hiding what looked and smelled suspiciously like weed.

“STILINSKI!” he barked, immediately feeling calmer. “GET BACK HERE!” He stormed after them as they hurried back inside.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Greenberg’s glasses lay on the pillow next to Coach’s head. He couldn’t remember how they got there, but he distinctly felt the cool plastic press into his wrist as he thrust up into the kid’s mouth.  
“Mmm-mmm-mmmmm” Greenberg admonished, managing to be infuriating even with his mouth full of cock, bobbing slowly up and down while Coach writhed beneath him. Coach reached above his head, hands gripping the spools on the headboard of his old bed. His feet pressed into the mattress, toes curling, straining to be closer to that wet heat and that damned kid, every time Coach tried to get closer, he’d pull further away. Finally, he popped completely off, a trail of spit stringing from the slit of Coach’s cock to the mouth smirking up at him. Greenberg nudged his head down, nosing gently at the straining erection, then softly bathing the weeping head with the flat of his tongue. 

“Should I let you come tonight?” The kid’s voice was soft, low. “Should I let you fuck my mouth?” He continued his slow tour, his hand lightly grazing Coach’s thigh. His voice was so quiet it was hard to believe he was talking at all. 

“Tell me I own you. I want to hear it.” Greenberg’s eyes were round, pupils blown, as he looked up at Coach’s face. “Say it.” 

Coach’s voice cracked. “You own me. You own me. You always own me.” The relief was instantaneous, Greenberg swallowing his dick whole, his tongue swirling around the head, lapping the frenulum on every up-stroke, quickly coaxing that sweet release from deep in the base of Coach’s spine. 

He woke up in a cold sweat. His hands tangled in his sheets, a mess growing sticky and uncomfortable in his lap even as he realized what had happened. 

“Shit.”  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The clouds floated by, alternating covering and uncovering the sun on the cool January day that Greenberg graduated. There was no ceremony. No caps or gowns, no slideshows, no speeches. Just a boy wandering out to the track to meet his friends for the last time as peers--hair ruffling, back patting, ass-slapping congratulations. Coach sat on the bleachers nearby, hands clasped, giving his boys a minute to celebrate. 

Just a minute though.

“GET TO WORK, LADIES!” He stood, clapping his hands. The team slowly began their stretches, readying their legs for the brutal run that was sure to lie ahead. Greenberg wandered a bit aimlessly to the bench, sitting where Coach had been, waiting.

That was the first time Coach had really considered him. He stood, arms crossed, head cocked, staring at the teen, an awareness dawning on him: the boy was not off-limits anymore. He was also not a boy anymore, definitely a grown man, and definitely available.  
He turned back toward the field, the last of the cross country team leaving the track and following the path into the woods. He had to risk it. He had to just see. 

When he turned again, finally ready to give in to the thing his body was screaming for, Greenberg was gone.

“GOD DAMMIT!”

 

\---------------------

A week went by. Coach thought of him every day. He raged inside, alternately furious at himself for not pursuing the kid, then furious at the kid for not coming back around. For the heavy-lidded looks and the pages and pages of stream-of-consciousness filth that Greenberg would turn in, and the shower, Jesus Christ for the shower. For the lift and tilt of his hips when he sat in his plastic desk chair, the spread of his knees, his feet angled in just so. Enraged that the angle of a foot somehow managed to take up space in Coach’s brain, like it was a matter of importance. Furious for the way he’d lean back, his arms slung over his chair, and the kid was so frustrating, and so untouchable, and so right there. 

Two weeks. Coach hadn’t seen or heard from him, but he dreamt of him. He was ashamed of himself, but it didn’t stop him from looking forward to going to bed at night.

A month went by and Coach wondered if it was all in his head. Was he played? If so, did he win or lose? 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was summer, and Coach was just putting the finishing touches on the report cards, cackling loudly to himself whenever he thought of a particularly hysterical comment to send home. The history of male circumcision is not actually an appropriate topic for economics, he scrawled on one. He was idly musing about how Stilinski reminded him of a younger version of himself, when there was a tap-tap-tap on the door frame.

“Am I interrupting you?” Greenberg’s voice sliced through the air. Coach leaned back in his chair, finally allowing himself to drink in the sight of the boy in his doorway. Leaning, as always, as if he couldn’t possibly be left to balance on his own two feet. He had a ball cap pulled down over his eyes, dark curls spilling wildly out the sides. “Can I come in?”

“Can you come in?! Where the hell have you been, Greenberg!?” Coach’s voice was loud, panicked. 

That familiar cocky smile danced on Greenberg’s lips as he moved into the room, teasing, “Did you miss me? And here I thought you didn’t like me at all.” He toed the office door shut and locked it, the quiet snick of the bolt breaking the silence in the room. 

Coach gulped. He needed a drink. Water, whiskey… something. Greenberg was easing around the edge of his desk, invading his space, taking his breath away. “You have always been a pain in my ass, kid.” Coach forced himself to stare at the desk, afraid of what his face might reveal if he looked in the boy’s gray eyes.

“I could make you feel so good.” As always, Greenberg was unfazed. That was part of his charm, Coach supposed. 

And then there was a hand on his thigh.

“Look at me.” The boy commanded, and Coach could not refuse. “Do you want this..? Me?” For the first time, Greenberg’s voice shook. Coach was a goner and they both knew it, even before Coach nodded his head YES.

Greenberg was in his lap so fast it made his head spin. Or maybe it was the frantic press of his lips on Coach’s, or the arm locked around the back of his neck, or the grind of Greenberg’s cock, stiff, against his stomach. Or maybe it was the scrape of teeth across his bottom lip. Or the moan that escaped the boy’s mouth when Coach pulled his fingertips across his back. Coach was on fire, from head to toe, and he pressed back into the boy, surging forward with a low growl. 

Coach pulled his mouth away from Greenberg’s, dragging his nose across his cheek and panting into his ear. “You win.” His voice was breathy, but he didn’t care. He had his arm around the waist of the one he’s wanted for months, and he didn’t give a damn about his breathy voice. 

Greenberg pulled his head back and gave Coach such a wry smile, it sent shivers down his back. “I win, you say? So you’re going to do whatever I want?” 

“Yes, fuck, whatever you want.” Coach was frustrated at the separation, massaging thumbs into Greenberg’s hips, the kid still grinding on Coach’s lap shamelessly.

“Good. I want to watch you come. It’s only fair.” Coach’s hips bucked up at the memory of Greenberg in the shower, and Greenberg slowly eased off his lap, lifting himself smoothly onto the desk. He leaned forward, tugging Coach’s nylon jogging pants down past his thighs, his knees, then hooked the pants with his foot and pulled them completely off. Coach leaned back in his chair, the head of his cock pushing at the band of his underwear. Greenberg pulled those down too, and when his dick sprang free, Greenberg let out a low moan. He eased off the desk and knelt on the floor between Coach’s legs, and his voice was rough when he croaked out, “Now make yourself come.” 

Coach was uncertain, but began to stroke his cock, long strokes up and down the shaft. He was immediately grateful for the relief, but simultaneously upset that it was his own hand offering it, again. He looked down between his legs and saw Greenberg’s eyes shining, his own palm grinding roughly on his erection through his jeans. Coach ran his thumb over the head of his dick, seeking moisture, but it wasn’t enough. He sighed loudly, then pulled his hand to his mouth and spit in his palm. When he wrapped his hand back around his straining erection, the slick wetness sent his eyes rolling back in his head. He let out a low moan, and below him, Greenberg moaned in return. He pumped furiously, his eyes on the kid, and there was nothing else in the universe. He felt himself nearing the edge and his head dropped back on his chair, his ass flexing against the chair, his thigh muscles clenching. Without warning, there were lips wrapped around his cock, hot and wet and perfect. He popped his eyes open and damn that Greenberg was bobbing up and down and it felt like a goddamned dream. 

“I’m.. I’m going to come.” Coach managed to grind out, and Greenberg responded by swirling his tongue around the head of his cock, and sucking roughly down the shaft. It was all over, then, and Coach let out a loud moan as he shot hot streams of come down Greenberg’s throat. Greenberg just kept gulping him down, not stopping until Coach let out a small hiss, “Too much. Too much.” 

Greenberg leaned back on his heels, still palming the crotch of his jeans, but looking thoroughly satisfied. “I hope you don’t mind I had to blow you a little. I don’t have the self control you have, I guess.”

Coach just stared at him. 

“Cat got your tongue then? Well, tell her to give it back, because I have some other uses for it.” Greenberg snarked, and that kid just never turned it off, and dammitall if that wasn’t the thing Coach liked about him most. 

Coach leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands, his face just inches away from Greenberg’s. 

“You’re not the only one with tricks up your sleeve, cupcake.” Greenberg’s eyes were saucers as Coach deftly thumbed the button open on his jeans. 

“I have wanted this for so long. I have thought about this a million times. I can’t believe this is happening.” Greenberg’s voice was hoarse, scratchy. “You are so insanely hot, Coach, you don’t even know.”

“Greenberg.” Coach was serious as he knelt in front of the boy. “Please, just, stop talking.”

Greenberg’s reply was another one of his gut-wrenching wicked grins, and Coach finally took the opportunity to kiss it right off his smug face.

**Author's Note:**

> Dub con: Coach is lured into the showers in the locker room and finds Greenberg masturbating. It is a show for him that he knows he should walk away from, but can't. Greenberg is aware of his presence, and Coach is in no way required to stay and watch, outside of his own desire.


End file.
